


G is for...

by Kestrel337



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Addiction, Fix It Fic, Ignores Season Three, M/M, Multi, OT3, Past Drug Use, Polyamory, Silver Fox Saturday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-29
Updated: 2014-03-29
Packaged: 2018-01-17 10:05:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1383481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kestrel337/pseuds/Kestrel337
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Why do you let him get away with that?” Sherlock had substituted ‘Griswald’ for ‘Greg’, and John just couldn’t let it go anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	G is for...

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta read, not brit-picked. A fix-it fic, because Lestrade is awesome. Written for Silver Fox Saturday, 3/29. 
> 
> I don't own any of these characters.

“Why do you let him get away with that?” Sherlock had substituted ‘Griswald’ for ‘Greg’ as he abandoned their shared bed to attend an experiment, and John just couldn’t let it go anymore. 

Greg pursed his lips and considered shrugging it off. They rarely discussed the times before. The war, or the drugs, or the infidelities. The past was the past, and off limits unless it threatened their present balance. But underlying John’s muzzy post-coital voice had been a current of long held, and ill-suppressed, irritation. John, the stalwart defender, annoyed with one partner on the other’s behalf but reluctant to break their unspoken agreement. John needed the full answer, and providing it would damage Greg far less than Sherlock. If Sherlock even knew.

“Honestly? I’m convinced he deletes my name as soon as he hears it. Self-hypnotic suggestion, brain-based subroutine, whatever. I think he’s afraid to say it. Not that he’d admit as much, even to himself. Probably deletes that, too.” Greg nuzzled John’s hair and wondered where to start. At the beginning, obviously, but where exactly was that? With the drugs, probably. It wouldn’t have been his first choice for pillow talk, but then so little about this relationship was typical, including the depth of honesty and openness it required. But could John be made to understand? “Sherlock was never just another junkie, you know. Never meant to become an addict. He figured he could control it.” 

John lifted his head to stare at Greg, hard eyes in an expressionless face. “That particular bit of arrogance isn’t unique to Sherlock. I’ve never known anyone yet who set out to become an addict.” 

Greg held his breath. Was the conversation over before it really began? But John sighed, shifted, settled again with his head on Greg’s shoulder. “’Sokay, I know what you mean. He’d never have considered himself to be at risk. Addiction is so ordinary.” His fingers lazily stroked over Greg’s chest.

Greg took the opening that was offered. “Right. And that just made it harder for him. He was so furious at getting hooked, and then there was Mycroft with his pamphlets about Kusnacht, or Hazelden, or Safe Havens. ‘All expenses paid, Sherlock.’ Just wanted to help, worried about him, blah blah blah.” Greg’s free hand mimed a flapping mouth. “Like it would’ve worked to plop Sherlock Holmes into some residential facility in Minnesota. Like some doctor in Bangkok would bother to keep his mind engaged while he came down.” Greg snorted.

“Yeah, he’s a bit of a special case.”

Greg hummed, pleased with John’s agreement. “He needed more than someone who’d let him run his mouth. Needed to run his mind, more than anything. Well. You know. So I stayed with him for the duration.” 

John’s hand paused. “Wait. You’re saying Sherlock detoxed on his own? No medical staff, no facility?” 

“He wasn’t alone. Once Mycroft saw how it was, he pulled a few strings. Got me some time off, stuck some poor nurse into the flat downstairs- lucky it was vacant already- had groceries and stuff delivered. Not that it was exactly easy, for all that. You think his filter’s dodgy now? God.” 

John was silent for a time, trying to digest the information that Greg had been Sherlock’s sole support during his withdrawal. “So what’s that got to do with him forgetting your name?”

Greg ran a hand over John’s skin, pulled the duvet around them. From beyond their cozy nest he could hear glassware chiming, Sherlock muttering as he so often did when an experiment was reaching fruition. “It was a few days in. You’re a doctor, you know the symptoms.”

John recited them from memory. “Restlessness, agitation, anxiety, depression. Increased appetite, fatigue, sometimes paranoia, inability to concentra…oh. I suppose that was the worst for him, wasn’t it?”

“Got it in one. He was certain he’d become ordinary, boring. His brain was rotting, he’d rather die of an overdose than become terminally stupid. Blamed Mycroft, blamed me. He could certainly think clearly enough to come up with some really inventive profanity.” Greg could smile about it now, years later when the threat of relapse had faded to a low-level worry rather than a clear and present danger. 

John’s fingers stroked his bicep. “He was so lucky. I’m glad he had you back then.”

“Even then, I knew he was special. Never would’ve guessed at this, though.” Greg pressed a fervent kiss to John’s forehead. “Anyway. I tried word games, tried board games. That one where you guess the colors, their order? Bad idea. I was stepping on those little pegs for days. But anything to engage his mind, you know? One day I was signing for a delivery and he marched right over, swiped the pad, and said ‘G. Lestrade. What’s the G for, I wonder.’ So I told him to guess.”

John could guess where that had led. He lowered his voice and mimicked indignity. “I never guess. I will use logic to discover your name.”

“Yep. Kept him busy most of that afternoon, until he hit the next mood swing. Maudlin, depressed. ‘Bout broke my heart, really. He kept on at me, about why was I still there, didn’t I know everybody always leaves, why hadn’t I left yet.” Greg pulled in a long, thoughtful breath. “Really made me think, you know? I still don’t know who all ‘everyone’ was. Only that they left, and it hurt him.”

John shook his head at the unasked question in Greg’s voice. “More than one but I’ve no idea who. We ever find out, they’d better run.”

“Truth.”

“You still haven’t answered my question.” John wriggled around, sat up. “Need the loo, then I want the rest of the story.” 

He grabbed a pair of pyjama pants on his way and closed the door behind him. The mini-blinds Greg occasionally regretted installing smacked against the glass, and the sound brought Sherlock padding down the hallway with a tray. He pulled up short at the serious expression on Greg’s face. “Something’s wrong. What is it? I thought you were okay with me getting up. I didn’t, I wasn’t, I-” 

“Sherlock. Stop.” Greg pulled open the drawer, swept bottles and packets off the nightstand, and gestured for Sherlock to settle the tray. “Nothing is wrong. Nobody is upset that you didn’t stay in bed, we’ve already said we understand that you’re not one for lazing about. Seems a waste of a Sunday morning, but we get it. We get you.”

“Then why do you look like that?”

“I’m sorry, love. John was asking about some things. I’ve been telling him about that time I stayed with you. But maybe I should have left it for you to tell.”

Sherlock looked toward the bathroom. “When we promised honesty I thought, maybe, I don’t know, maybe he’d decided to let that all lie. But it’s fine. Better he hear it from someone who remembers it clearly.” He edged toward the hallway, was stopped in his tracks by John emerging from the bathroom and resting a hand on his arm.

“Don’t. Stay. Please.” He let go of Sherlock, resumed his spot in the bed, and accepted the mug Greg offered him. “Good tea, thanks. Now, sit.” He pointed a commanding finger from Sherlock to the armchair they’d brought from Greg’s flat. 

Silently, Sherlock obeyed, curling into the chair with his arms wrapped around his knees and his eyes on the floor. 

John looked at Greg. “So. He was detoxing, bored, depressed, couldn’t think. You set him to guessing your name and he was being a dick.”

Greg sipped from his own mug and picked up the story. “You mentioned paranoia, agitation. Next day, he was climbing the walls. Walking on the furniture, pacing, taking apart the phone looking for bugs. Said I was Mycroft’s spy, said he needed space, needed air. I went to make pasta, came back and found him hanging halfway out the window. Four floors up, and he’s sitting on the sill, leaning out to look for cameras. Pulled him back in, and he blacked my eye.” Greg paused. John’s face was ashen, eyes screwed shut against the images Greg’s words had conjured up. “Oh, hell. I’m sorry. God, John.” Could he bungle this conversation any more?

“No, no.” John took a few shuddering breaths, blew out slowly. “Can’t escape it, can we? No, I’m okay. Go on, finish it.” He smiled weakly at Sherlock, patted the long fingers that had circled his ankle. “Paranoid, angry, agitated.”

“Right.” Greg nodded. “His flat had a double dead-bolt, and a good thing too. Had to hide the key so I could get some rest. Well, he argued and raged and basically threw a withdrawal-fueled tantrum. When he was finally winding down, about to fall asleep, he asked me. Something about when was I going to leave him the hell alone.”

“What do I have to do? Why won’t you just go away?” Sherlock spoke hollowly, slowly, the words dredged from some hidden place in his memory. “And you said that you’d know I was in my right mind, in control, when I guessed your name. You’d leave when I called you by your proper name.” He looked up at them, eyes unfathomable. “If I call you by your name, you’ll leave.”

“Wires uncrossing now, are they?” Greg’s eyes were soft on Sherlock’s face. “I’m not leaving. Not ever.”

“I know that.” 

“You know that now,” Greg corrected.

“I’ve always known that.” Sherlock was defiant.

John smiled, sat back into the pillows. “He didn’t leave when you called him Gustav, or Grendel. He stayed even after the thing with the pig eyes. He’s not about to go anywhere because you know his name.” He scooted over to the far side of the bed, patted the spot in the middle. “Come on, over here.”

Sherlock stood, pulled at his dressing gown, fiddled with the hem of his tee-shirt. “You’re out of tea. I’ll go make more, won’t take a minute.”

“Nope. I don’t need more tea. Neither does Lestrade.” John deliberately used Greg’s surname, hoping to provoke a response. “What we need is you, right here in this bed, right now. If you go out to the sitting room, we’ll just follow you, and it’s more comfortable here. So.” 

Sherlock carefully climbed over John’s legs and tried to settle in the middle, but John pulled him close, back to front, and rested his chin on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Just so you know, I’m not leaving either.” 

Greg crawled over, straddled Sherlock’s legs, and leaned forward to press their lips together lingeringly. When he pulled away he said, “And before you get any ideas, we’re not letting you go. I honestly don’t care what you call me. I’m staying, right here, with you and with John.” He kissed Sherlock again, then John over Sherlock’s shoulder, before sitting back on his heels.

Sherlock swallowed, looked away and quickly back. His lips parted on a croaking “I-”. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I never thanked you. I never understood why you kept coming around. I thought it was just because of the cases.”

“Idiot. I kept coming ‘round because you needed someone to keep coming ‘round,” Greg said fondly. “And then, when you didn’t need that so much, the cases gave me an excuse to spend time with someone I honestly liked. You don’t need to thank me. Friends help each other, and I’ve always understood what you don’t say anyway. God help me, but I have.”

“But you like words. I want to give you the words.” 

“Sentiment? You? Well, go ahead then. I won’t tell.” Greg smile gave the lie to his long-suffering voice.

“Thank you for staying with me back then, for helping me get clean. Thank you for helping me stay clean. Thank you for being such a…a…a good friend.” Sherlock paused for breath, quirked the genuine and shy smile that so few were privileged to witness. “Thank you, Greg.”


End file.
